Confession time. I am could be a survivalist. Even as I write that, some strange part of my brain is craving a gun.

My husband is starting to figure it out. The amount of instant coffee in this house is starting to reach critical mass. Like pantry cupboard sagging with the weight stage.

Hubby opened the pantry last night.

“What’s with all the instant coffee?”

“Um, what?” Brain quickly telling me to look busy. Cook something. Avoid conversation. Show him a boob if he continues to talk.

“There’s like 12 jars of instant coffee here. We don’t even drink instant coffee. And why do we have 45 fucking kinds of TEA? Who’s drinking that?”

“Um, a sale?” Rapidly whipping up a brownie mix. (Okay, it’s kind of cooking.)

Hubby, eyeing the oven, starting to sniff the air (that man is part hound) “Just because there is a sale doesn’t mean you can spend $400 dollars on hot drinks!”

Me, casually flipping left boob out of t-shirt while wearing oven mitts (tricky),”Well, it seemed like a good buy SONUFABITCH!” Burning left boob on oven door while trying to look sexy.

Hubby (looking at burned boob while I am going through circus contortions to run it under cold water in kitchen sink),”Hmmmmm. When are those brownies ready?”

See, he and I have talked about this. We thumb our noses at these folks. But we watch the ‘end of the world’ docs. I watch zombie shows like they are infomercials. Then my rationality leaves and I think maybe those folks are right. And I busily make insane lists of things we need.

“We need ammo! Do we have ammo? Fuck, do we even have a gun?!?”

“Yes, we have a gun. Three.”

“Oh good. Where are they?”

“Locked in the gun cabinet in the basement. What’s with you?”

“And ammo? Where is the ammo?”

“I don’t know. Probably in the garage or something. What’s that list you have?”

“You’ll need to bring that in. Unlock the gun cabinet. And teach me to shoot. What time is it? Ten? Can you shoot at stuff at ten in this county? God, my tit hurts.”

“You are not shooting in the dark and why are you so nuts? It’s that fucking show, isn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have turned that on!”

“Okay, okay.” Hopeful eyebrows while pulling right boob out.“Do we have gas masks?”

Stony silence.

I wish I could say that this has only happened a couple of times. But this weird panic takes over every few weeks and I get all survivally. It’s very stressful.

I have books on medical and edible plants. I have planned which of our pets we’d eat first if we ran out of food. (Don’t eat dog liver! It’s poisonous. Truth. Why do I know that? And it’s the Pug, because he’s an asshole.) And every once in a while, I scare the living bejesus out of my folks.

“Hello? You need to stock up on gas and water! If the phones go out, just get your asses in the car and get here as quick as you can! Good bye!”

My mother:”Hello? Who is this? What are you talking about?” Click.

Dad:”Who was that?”

Mom:”Some nutbag. Do we have gas and water? We need some!”

Dad:”Why?”

Mom:”I don’t know, but we do!”

And off go the old folks, motoring like mad to prepare for the doomsday.

I’ll also go without showering for a few days. Not laziness *cough* but just to practice for the time when water is scarce. I’m also trying to cloud myself in a musky scent so that I’ll blend in with all the wildlife after, well, whatever is going to happen.  That does not go over with my hubby well at all. No amount of boob makes stinky wife week okay.

Now, I’m no doomsayer. For the most part, I think these people blathering on about the end of days need to get hobbies. Or jobs. Really they just need to stop scaring the shit out of folks unnecessarily. But that one weird part of my brain wonders maybe?

In the meantime, I’ll stock up in bits and pieces. But if anything happens, try to come to my place. I’ll have coffee ready for you.

Now if I could just figure out why this dog keeps hiding from me…